


Still Waters Run Deep

by Quilljoy



Series: Theon as Lord Bolton's ward AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drowning, Emotional Manipulation, Hypothermia, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stockholm Syndrome, Theon as Lord Bolton's ward AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: Theon is raised as Domeric's brother. It doesn't fare well for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed for now, sorry!  
> This is set waay before my throose piece. Theon's around fifteen now, and Domeric is thirteen. I wanted them to have the same age difference as Theon and Robb, alas, it wasn't possible due to reasons :(

Snow is piling up to his ankles when Domeric asks Theon to teach him how to swim.

Theon blinks, dumbfounded. In four years, he’s never even wondered why a Northerner would wish to swim. There are lakes and there are rivers, much as there are lake and rivers anywhere people will settle. Domeric is a lord’s son, though, not a fishmonger, and in the North a lord’s son will play the harp and ride with the wind - not the waves. Theon doesn’t see him knees deep in mud once the climate sets and the temperature starts dropping. Pyke’s rocky shores are a dangerous place for a young boy to learn to swim, but the dwindling sun heats the patches of land beneath them. Theon remembers being a thumb-sized brat, sprawled on the sand and watching as the waves lapped at his feet. Asha would tickle his toes until their brothers appeared, and they’d pinch and bite at him like the fish floating down below.

Oddly, it’s one of his fondest memories. The land coiling around the Dreadfort doesn’t allow for swimming. It’s barren and dry at their hottest days and cold and muddy in their worst nights. There are maybe a couple of lakes, and the shoddy river that splits the North in patches of dirt. Theon doesn’t want to know about the things living there. If any do. Asha taught him of the great Kraken and the creatures of the sea. And Theon isn’t scared, because the ocean holds bright life and dignified death and rebirth. He longs for the day Sirens will call him to the deep. He dreams of a drowned court of saltwater and a seaweed crown.

Waters of the North, however, are silent.

“It’s only fair.” Domeric shrugs, as if it’s Theon’s fault the North isn’t suited for the lesson. His horse struggles against the reigns Domeric uses to pull him forward. A complaint that his master might abandon him for something else. Theon couldn’t have put it any better; creatures of land are not fit for a life in water – and the opposite is also true. Theon, himself, has already fallen from his own mare twice, and settles for walking besides her despite the snow creeping up inside his boots.

“I’ve taught you how to shoot with a bow and arrow,” Domeric says.

“But you didn’t teach me how to hit a target.”

“You don’t have to teach me how to cross miles of waters. You just have to teach me not to sink.”

“Drowning isn’t the worst death.”

Domeric agrees. Of course Domeric would agree.

“And if you die, you can just be brought back later, as long as there are someone watching over you.”

“Not all times.” Domeric smiles grimly.

“Shut up.” Swimming is his thing. Domeric can have his horses and the stupid harp. He can have his father, and being lord of the Dreadfort. He’s the one who brought up the subject anyway. “I know about it better than you. I drowned, once.”

Theon’s chest, who’s stuffed in pride, deflates once Domeric stares down at him. Something akin to pity lingers in his eyes. There’s something darker, also. Theon can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Father told me.” Domeric keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn’t see when a chill creeps down Theon’s spine and he has to stop. Domeric is already meters ahead once Theon catches up to him, having leaned against a tree to pull out the snow tucked inside his boots. They exchange brief words; Theon says he’s alright, despite the fact that Domeric never asks. He doesn’t understand why Domeric doesn’t ask. Maybe he doesn’t know what his father does to other people.

Maybe he knows, and doesn’t care. Theon would rather believe in the alternative.

“I’ve heard your lungs fill with water, and that’s why it’s so hard to breath,” Domeric says in a conversational tone. Theon’s cheeks burn red. He fastens his cloak around his neck and hides his face against the pelts.

“I don’t know,” he ends up confessing. His throat is dry. “I was little, I guess I passed out. I don’t remember.”

Here’s what Theon remembers: The pressure on the back of his eyes. Holding his tears back. The look on his father’s face. His nuncle’s voice, feverish and dream-like once his head was underwater. Trying not to breathe. Asha, tickling him until he opened his mouth to laugh and the sea flooded him. Being part of the sea.

(Being frightened.)

Not failing.

Theon remembers coughing out the salt and licking up tears, and the relief that washed over him - not for waking up, but for the fact that his family would never have known he’d cried.

He’d struggled, yeah. But he hadn’t failed.

Domeric steals it from him in one sentence.

“Of course you did. But it’s like that, you know. That’s why you have to be careful. You can push the water out of them later, but if someone swallows too much, they are never coming back.”

“How do you know that?”

It isn’t _fair_.

“Father told me.”

Roose Bolton teaches Domeric all matters of things. It’s strange, since they’re getting the same lessons, yet Domeric comes up with every sort of useless information during dinner or sword practice. He doesn’t need to know how many liters of blood a person has. If someone gets stabbed with the pointy end, they die. So Theon mostly ignores Domeric and makes an effort to parry his strikes. Domeric doesn’t seem to try at all to win, but he does, nonetheless. Over and over again.

It feels as if Domeric is winning even now, as they exchange tales, rather than blows. Theon walks with intent, focusing on the lake view ahead. He leaves Domeric to catch up with him this time. By the time Domeric’s come over, he’s already tied his horse to a tree and is in the process of stripping off his coat.

“Aren’t you going to undress?” Theon asks.

“I think I’m just going to watch from here first.”

The cold leaves the hair prickling in the back of his neck.

“I thought you said there were hot springs.”

“They should be.”

A deep sigh falls spilling from Theon’s lips. He toes of his shoes, looking forlorn at the damp patch of land split in two. There’s no hiss of steam. The only bubbles that climb to the surface look like they were produced by a creature down below and, unlike the vast oceans surrounding the shore of his home, this looks like a place where monsters live, not gods.

His nuncle would’ve had a field day with his inquiries. If merfolk and krakens own the sea, what rules over the waters of the North?

The Boltons do; Domeric’s gaze reminds him. His eyes are cloudy like the storm brewing above.

Reason dictates the water should’ve frozen and cracked, but according to Domeric, winter has not yet come in full force, and in the north, even the lakes are used to the cold.

“That’s why I told you I should handle the maps.”

“Are you going to give up?”

“Of course not,” Theon huffs in response. And because Theon’s not made to handle disappointment, ever again, he shrugs his woolen undershirt off.

It’s the wind that makes him shrivel and hide, palms heating between his legs until he feels the tip of his fingers again, but it could as well be Domeric’s gaze. Once his legs have stopped shivering, Theon stretches. From his toes up. The cold takes hold of his calves and seizes them up. It curls around the pit of his stomach. Domeric hasn’t stopped to tie his horse and still holds it by the reigns.

What are you staring at? Theon knows better than to ask. He chews on his own tongue and luckily, that brings some heat to his cheeks. The warmth creeps down once he realizes Domeric hasn’t tended to the animals because he’s found something else to be of his interest.

The ocean, he’s familiar with. Sometimes it’s gentle water, lapping at his fingers, warmth and inviting from the dying sun. And when the storm rages on, Theon’s learnt to trust the waves not to pull him down, allowing his body to be pulled in a tug of war, breathing when necessary, awaiting the calm that would follow.

But this? There’s nothing reasonable behind the pull of Domeric’s will.

Sacrifices must be made to the Drowned God living below. Why would a boy require this of him? Domeric is a good couple of years younger, but amongst the snow, he’s a stone god, ageless and expectant.  

There’s no calling, as the sea would call to him, a siren’s song that wraps tendrils of water around his feet or hands and call for him to swim. The lake is perfectly still. Theon’s forced to rely on Domeric to edge him on, and it’s easy – surprisingly easy – to overcome the initial shock of icy waters once he hears shouts of encouragement. The cold takes hold of him by his ankles, first, before he pushes past the gasping and the shuddering and further into the depths by taking another step. Then another, and another, until the fourth turns into a fifth and the fifth turns into a tenth, and he’s covered from the waist down and shaking violently.

He’s gotta focus on his breathing, now. In, out, least he slips and finds himself drowned on land instead. It’s difficult when his heartbeat jumps and plummets, and he’s intoxicated on air, but it’s a full minute before it passes and Theon submerges - slowly, carefully - still testing the ground beneath his feet. He gives a tentative push and begins to float.

Alright; he can do this. It’s different than swimming out on the open, but the movements come back to him as if he’s never left the islands. Theon closes his eyes and it’s being back on the sea again, years before, tossed out of the hold and into the waves, rolling and sinking and coming back for air. Winter’s hit the Iron Islands before, and albeit not true Winter, Theon’s never been a stranger to cold. He knows how to survive there. This is his realm, a small and forgotten spot in this forsaken place. Theon sways gently, his own motions creating rings that spiral out of reach. He could stay here forever, truly could, even though the chill is creeping up his spine and has already taken his fingers into its grasp.

Theon knows it’s time to go back, but when he stretches and searches for the bottom of the lake, his toes find nothing.

He’s confused, at first, and it takes a couple of minutes before unease settles on the bottom of his stomach. Domeric isn’t that easy to spot. Theon raises his arm and waves to nowhere particular, expecting a reply, but once he does it, it becomes harder to stay afloat.

Somewhere between the trees, something waves back.

It’s easier to see the horses, first. Domeric’s mare is coated with brown flecks all over, and his own is distinctively bright amongst the twisted branches, giving him an inkling of where he should swim to. Theon’s lips curve into a smile.

And then he sinks.

He should’ve been able to swim. He’s become no northerner, to have forgotten how to wave his arms and legs in rhythm to keep afloat. Once Theon breathes in, it feels like water invading his lungs and settling deep in the bottom of his chest. He tries once more. His head’s above water.

It doesn’t seem to matter.

“Domeric.” He calls. When Theon doesn’t hear his own voice, he tries again: “Domeric, I can’t _breathe_.” But there’s nothing. In the far distance, he hears bubbles coming up the surface. Domeric’s watching him still through a misty haze.  

“Domeric!”

The movement of his arms grow frantic. The anger at his own failing body turns to despair when being angry doesn’t seem to help. It doesn’t matter. His heart starts beating faster, but there’s no oxygen left to pump. His world is upside down and Theon is sure he’s breathing air, hangs onto this certainty for dear life, but once he inhales, whatever fills his lungs is dense and paralyzing.

His eyes fill and overflow with salt. What a terrifying thought, to die in this barren place, where his skin would crack and peel and waste away. His remains would serve no purpose. Mermaids would never come to drag him off to further depths.

The day is dwindling. The sun falls behind a curtain of trees and the shadows grow longer. They spread from beneath the trunks until their branches touch the edge of the lake. Longer still, and Theon could reach them. Shoveling the water away from his legs, Theon makes a last attempt at finding purchase, but there’s nothing to wrap his fingers around and his hand falls, flat, spitting droplets into the air. He manages a deep breathe before the light hits his eyes. His lashes are wet and he can’t see Domeric on shore anymore. He can barely see anything. Maybe he’s got all wrong; the evening is still bright, and he’s falling, falling, and it isn’t a dying day on the surface above, but his vision, clouded by the depths below.

 

***

 

“...there will be no permanent damage.”

A tremor, then consciousness.

There’s a chill, at first, and when it doesn’t go away Theon knows he’s alive. It’s pain that grows in waves, from the core to the tips of his fingers, as his heart pumps his blood to warmth. There’s pinpricks in his legs and knives on his toes. Theon attempts to wiggle them but they feel otherly; just a mass of wax, or wood, cracked to splinters. He can feel them, though. That has to be good.

His eyes are shut and he can’t find the energy to open them. He can’t even scream, not even when the hurt builds up, making his body trash against his command. There’s layers of wool weighing him down and keeping him trapped. Like a coffin.

“The blisters appear worse than they actually are. His hands and feet might become a little less sensitive to temperature, but it’s only to be expected.”

Something warm and soft wraps behind his head. Theon can hear the rapid beat of its pulse. It raises his chin until he can sip a sweet liquid that heats his throat on its way down, burning all the way to his stomach, spreading warmth where there was none. Theon doesn’t think he can take it anymore, but the hand is steady on its place, and he’s unable to move away. He just keeps drinking. It hurts, but soon he’s full and sated, and the drowsiness gets back to him.

He feels more, then. The bundles of cloth, warmed up by the stones they’re wrapped around, under his armpits and between his legs. The crackle of the fireplace. Wisps of winter coming from above; a crack on a window, possibly, or the strange architecture of the Dreadfort, planned to trap inside the cold.

He’s home, then.

(No, not home.)

“Give him two to three weeks of recovery. He will be perfectly fine.”

The noise continues behind him. Theon knows he can find sense in it if he focus and listen, but the meaning behind the words is too difficult to grasp, the voice raspy, old, unknown.

He drifts off to sleep in the comfort of his bed.

 

***

 

The next time Theon comes back to himself, his lashes tremble, his will falters, but his eyes open at last. The surroundings blur once he blinks, but a couple more seconds and they clear all by themselves. Theon recognizes his room: Darkened stone walls with narrow windows. A lit fireplace, fed generously with piles of wood.  The pelts of previous hunts, hanging on the walls, together with a couple new tapestries he hasn’t seen before and which have been draped haphazardly against every surface available. His chest, torn open, personal belongings scattered on the floor.

Lord Bolton, standing by his bed, as Domeric fades into the background.

Roose Bolton brings his hand to his face. Theon shuts his eyes faster than he can think, instinct having him flinching away, but Lord Bolton only tilts his jaw, inspecting his ears, his nose. He pries one eye open and watches as Theon’s pupil dilates, huge with dread that settles in his gut and hurts deeper than the cold. And then he’s moving again, touching his cracked lips, covering them in balm before sinking one thumb inside his mouth and pressing it against his teeth. Theon feels like a horse. He also feels cared for, somewhat, and it warms him faster than all the clothing wrapped around him. For some stupid reason, his heart thumps so badly he feels ill.

“Are you unwell?”

“No.” He says before he can think. “Yes. I don’t kn– I’m. I’m not dead. My lord,” Theon adds in a hurry.

“Well observed.”

He’d do a measure if he wasn’t lying down. Even Theon can see that rushing to sit is foolish, and he pulls up the covers instead, dislodging some of the hot stones in the process. There are yards of fabric wrapped around him, but the cold feels permanent under Lord Bolton’s gaze.

“I’d very much like to go back to sleep.”

“Would you, now?”

Theon’s eyes slid to the corner of the room where Domeric stands, wordless. It isn’t that odd to see Domeric quiet. He wasn't a talkative kid – never was, as far as Theon remembers – and it suits them well, because Theon likes talking, and he can talk enough for the both of them. It’s just the way Domeric is. It’s his presence that’s off. Theon blinks away the salt from his eyes until his vision clears. There’s a vivid handprint adorning his cheek.

And because Theon’s not foreign to being slapped, he knows it’s recent, and he knows it must hurt. He even knows, judging by the size of it, and the shapes where the rings had burned, it belongs to Domeric’s father, as he’s felt the same hand weighing down on him more times than he can count on his fingers. He deserved it, too. Theon’s not gonna lie about that, not when he’s on bed, and not when it must’ve been the first time he’s ever seen Domeric disciplined – because of course his father had sent for Theon to be punished for his misdeeds instead, and he’d spent his first couple of years at the Dreadfort as Domeric’s whipping boy. It’s only to be expected.

Well. Roose Bolton could not very well punish him now, could he, when he’s bed bound and nearly dead. Lucky him, to have the soft linen and furs. Domeric looks–

Theon catches himself thinking, with furrowed brow, that he’d like if Domeric looked miserable, yet he is not. Domeric is just tired. But not tired, tired, like Theon feels the ache in his bones, but tired like someone who’s been standing near the door for too damn long.

He even grins, once he catches Theon staring. Lord Bolton has been patiently waiting for him to elaborate on his words. There must be some heat left to his body, because the blood rushes up and he’s flushing.

“Avoid unnecessary strain, if you will,” Lord Bolton says. He thinks before touching the cloth over Theon’s forehead and then produces a handkerchief, which he uses to pat him on the cheeks, wiping away the sweat pooling over his nose. The tip of his ears grow red, even if he should be cool. “It won’t bode well if you die.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words stumble from his lips before he can stop himself.

“I didn’t meant to– No, I did, and it’s my fault. I’m sorry, Domeric’s got nothing to do with it, I was stupid, and I should’ve known better. You shouldn’t punish him.”

Lord Bolton’s lips tighten as he looks at the sweat stained cloth, before disposing of it on the side table, next to a cooling washbasin. As if, asserting himself that Theon would not die outside his watch solely out of spite, Roose Bolton rises from his chair in a measured fashion. He speaks at last, almost with a sense of wonder.

“Yes. Yes, you should’ve known better, you’re absolutely correct about that. I’ll assess later your own mistakes, but you should rest for now.”

“And Theon.” Lord Bolton pauses before crossing the threshold of his door. His eyes are on his son, not on him, and with one decisive movement, he tucks Domeric’s hair behind his ear and leaves the mark on his face on display. “Do not presume to tell me what I should or should not do.”

 

***

 

Domeric’s quiet but, once his father leaves, his stern expression dissolves into a smile.

“We’ll have to thaw your fingers.”

“What?”

Silence hangs in the air. Domeric peels off the layers of woolen blankets enveloping him, having them fold beneath his waist, and massaging Theon’s shoulder once he starts shivering. His hand dips down the covers, rubbing circles all the way there, eliciting a weak groan of protest from Theon because his mind darkens to dangerous places. But he does nothing. He just picks up Theon’s hands, and place them above the blankets.

His fingers are purple and waxen. Theon pales.

“Will I-” he cannot bring himself to continue. Domeric smiles without humor.

“You’re going to be alright.”

Theon buys it. What else could he do? He doesn’t protest once Domeric holds him by the shoulder and helps him sit. Weak as he is, resisting would cost him more than complying, even if his entire body squeaks as if made of hinges. Every last bit of him feels wooden. Looks wooden, too. Weathered by the Iron Island’s salt and sun, his skin has always been darker than his captives’. Theon’s always found pride in standing out from them, someone distinct from these men, with their ice chip eyes and skin, cold as snow; he’s iron born, and it stands out in the olive of his body and eyes. Right now, though, Theon is every bit an outsider as he should, as if there’s something alien in him and he’d never become someone of his own there. Sometimes, his looks are a reminder of who he is. Most of the time, however, it’s the reminder he’s trapped until his father rebels, and then he’ll be dead.

“I’ve never seen father so angry,” Domeric says.

“He’s never hit you before.”

Domeric chuckles.

“No.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“His word to Eddard Stark is valuable. If you died, I’d have made him a liar.”

Theon likes to believe his father would raid the North in fury at his death. His boy, his only boy, and the North would know the rage of the Kraken at last. Sometimes, he even imagines Balon Greyjoy is a great man, and not the wizened old creature that has bent the knee and lost his sons.

Domeric is smiling, Theon realizes, because he’s as much a pawn in their parents’ game as Theon. The noose doesn’t chafe at his neck. But it’s just grown tighter.

He slides his hands under Theon’s armpits and tugs him up, up, until Theon is stumbling out of the bed on his own, still supported by the unexpected strength in Domeric’s arms. Domeric is younger and smaller, but Theon’s frozen weight is nothing to him as he pulls him away from the covers. They stick to his feverish slick body. Theon doesn’t want to let them go even if the floor is warm under his naked feet. He sinks his toes in the thick plush of his carpet and his entire body unfolds, falling to the ground, but Domeric’s there to catch him this time.

“Wished you were there before,” Theon mutters. He scoots closer to Domeric’s arms, clad in, Theon now feels, once he wraps his fingers around them for support, layers of black velvet.

“Wish you hadn’t sunk so easily, you mean.”

“That, too.” He barks with a small laughter. It’s easy to admit his misgivings with Domeric. The string of punishment he’s come to expect from his tutors and Lord Bolton never come. After all, who’s Domeric, but a kid? A Bolton just in name and the cold of his gaze. His hands are gentle as he guides him to the bathing chamber. Steam escapes the room when the door’s open, and Theon’s shuffled inside. For Theon, who’s so cold he’s huddling closer to Domeric, and whose hands have been covering his privates as he hops to the room, feet numb, it feels like a blessing.

Domeric shudders and slips his coat off. Once he’s down to his linen shirt and rolls his sleeves up, Theon sees, through the comforts of the vapors in the room, that his skin looks not much better than his own. His father’s fingers are red on his cheek, but his lips are blue like his nuncle’s.

Domeric tests the water with his elbow.

“It’s alright,” he says. It’s terrifying that Theon’s come to depend on Domeric for such a small thing. “You can get in.”

Theon gets in, feet first. The world shifts around him, and it’s impossible not to think back when the water was colder, when he was naked still near Domeric. How long had it been? More than a couple of hours, certainly. But it was strange to think he’d nearly died in the space it usually took him to diner. There was little light coming from the outside. Only the shimmering of candles, settled near the tub, and the hearth of the fire have him realize it’s dark already, and the Lord and Lady Bolton have already had their supper.

Needless to say Domeric looks as hungry as Theon, though the sweet tea has settled his stomach, and he doesn’t pang for anything more than the warmth of the water enveloping him.

“How does it feel?”

“Hot, thankfully,” Theon replies, despite the tingling that tickles his fingers. Soon enough the feeling grows to be positively threatening, blood rushing back to the extremities and prickling his hands until he’s sweating. Screaming doesn’t seem like a possibility with Domeric so close to him.

Domeric realizes he’s distressed, because he fondles his hair, gently, soaping it and having Theon relinquish on the sensations that run through his body. It’s more than pain now.

“Domeric,” Theon calls, under his breath. The water pools around him. It's strange. That a simple thing, which he'd grown so fond of, could become threatening. “Domeric, who saved me?”

The ride to the lake had taken them half an hour, at least, though their pace was slowed down by Theon’s own ineptitude. And Domeric was a good rider - the best of them. He was really good. He could take - if he'd taken off the second he'd lost Theon, and if he'd whipped his horse to flight - he could do the same ride in ten, fifteen minutes. Back and forth, half an hour.  

Domeric ruffles his damp hair.

“I did. When you didn't come back up anymore." The smile he gives doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he looks beautiful nonetheless; his hands are comforting against the pain burning in his skin. "You must have taught me how to swim.”

Theon’s lips curved into a smile. There’s no surprise in it, really.

“Yeah. I must have.”

  
THE END


End file.
